Escape from Undermountain Page 4

  The wizard gaped at him. “But my lord, surely it is unwise to trust this scoundrel.”

  Sparks of ire flashed in Darien’s eyes. “Do you question my orders, Melthis?”

  The wizard’s face blanched. “Of course not, my lord,” he said fawningly.

  Hastily, Melthis weaved his thin hands in an intricate gesture, and the shimmering aura surrounding Artek vanished. He staggered, then caught his balance, drawing in a deep breath of relief.

  Darien led the way to a table in the center of the small chamber. He sat in a cushioned chair and motioned for Artek to take the chair opposite him. Melthis hovered two paces behind his master, hands tucked into the sleeves of his robe.

  “I imagine you are wondering how I brought you here,” Darien began.

  Artek only gazed at him silently. That was exactly what he was wondering, but he did not want to give the lord the satisfaction of hearing it.

  “You see, I have made a study of your colorful career, Ar’talen,” Darien went on. He pressed his shapely hands into a steeple before him. “I learned all I could of your daring exploits, and by so doing I have come to know you. I was certain that, once you were outside your magically warded cell, you would attempt an escape. By plotting the course on which the guards would lead you, and by studying parallels in your past work, I predicted the route that you would take. From there, it was a simple matter to have Melthis bring you here.” A smile coiled about his lips. “I must say, I am gratified to see my prediction proved so accurate.”

  This caught Artek entirely off guard. Was he really so simple that his actions could be guessed by one who had merely examined his past work?

  “I don’t know what you want of me, Darien,” he growled angrily. If the nobleman noticed the omission of the honorific lord, he showed no sign of it. “But you should know that I’m not the thief I used to be. I’m not sure if I’m even a thief at all anymore.” He plucked at the dirty rags that covered his emaciated frame. “Either way, I’m certainly damaged goods.”

  Darien shook his head, laughing softly. “No, Ar’talen, you are not damaged. If anything, you are greater than you ever were before. For in being captured you have finally known humility. You have learned that you have limits. And that knowledge will drive you to reach beyond those limits all the harder.”

  Artek did not answer. Darien had been right about him so far; perhaps he was correct in this as well. It was a disturbing thought, but one he could not quite dismiss.

  “So what do you want me to steal?” he asked darkly.

  “Nothing,” Darien replied. “Rather, there is something I want you to find. Something of great value to me—and to all of Waterdeep as well.”

  Darien motioned to Melthis, and the wizard filled two silver cups with crimson wine from a crystal decanter. Artek downed his in one gulp, then reached for the decanter to refill his goblet. It was expensive stuff, much better than prison swill. Darien sipped his own wine slowly as he spoke.

  “Three days ago, in search of sport, a hunting party consisting of several nobles and their attendants ventured into the upper levels of Undermountain. By accident, one of the nobles, Lord Corin Silvertor, was separated from the rest of the party. Before the others could search for him, they were set upon by a vicious band of kobolds and forced to retreat to the private entrance through which they had entered the maze. Subsequent forays into the same areas of Undermountain have revealed no trace of Lord Silvertor, and it is feared that he is lost.”

  Artek shrugged his shoulders. He had no sympathy for nobles whose stupidity put them in danger. “And why isn’t it feared that he found his way into the kobolds’ stew pot?”

  “This is why.” Darien set a small blue crystal on the table. A faint light flickered inside the gem. “This is a heart jewel,” the lord explained. “They are magical stones, each linked to the one it is created for. This one belongs to Lord Silvertor. The light within pulses in time to his heart, and by that we know he yet lives. The nearer the jewel is to its master, the brighter the light. By the faintness of the light in this jewel, we know that Lord Silvertor is lost deep in Undermountain—deeper than any hunting party has ever ventured.”

  Artek gazed thoughtfully at the pulsing jewel. “And I suppose you want me to go down and find your missing little lord.”

  Darien nodded gravely. “It is imperative that we find him, Ar’talen.” His voice dropped to a dire whisper. “You see, in two days’ time, there is to be a vote among all the nobility of Waterdeep. The vote will determine who is to take the seventh seat in the Circle of Nobles, left vacant after the untimely death of Lord Rithilor Koll. Lord Corin Silvertor is the leading candidate for the seat—which is well, for among his rivals are those with dark ambitions. They see the Circle as a means to rule over all the city’s nobility, and as a position from which to launch an all-out assault against the hidden Lords of Waterdeep.” Darien’s expression was grim. “Such strife would certainly tear this city asunder. But Silvertor is loyal to the Lords of Waterdeep. That is why it is crucial that he be found in time for the election. The fate of all Waterdeep depends on it.”

  Artek considered these words. “So if I go down into Undermountain and find this precious lord of yours, you’ll give me my freedom. Is that the deal?”

  “No, it is more than that,” Darien countered. “I am authorized by the Magisters to grant you a full pardon for all your past crimes. It would be as if you were never a thief, Ar’talen.” Darien’s sharp green eyes bore into Artek’s own. “All you must do is say yes.”

  Artek glared at the lord. Damn the smug bastard to the Abyss. What choice did he really have? It was exactly what he wanted—to have his dark past forgotten. There was only one thing he could say. He clenched his hands into fists and spat the word like a curse.

  “Yes.”

  Darien leaned back, smiling toothily. “Excellent.” He eyed Artek’s gaunt frame critically. “But we must prepare you for your task. Imprisonment has left you ill fit for the rigors of this mission.” He glanced at the red-robed wizard. “You may cast the spell now, Melthis.”

  Artek started to spring from his chair, but he was too slow. Melthis raised his hands and uttered a string of words in the weird tongue of magic. Searing pain arced through Artek’s body, and he fell to the floor, writhing. His flesh felt on fire, as if his bones and muscles were being molded like hot wax. Then, as quickly as it had begun, the pain ended. Gasping, he climbed to his feet. Something about the motion felt … strange.

  Artek gazed down at himself, and his coal-black eyes went wide with shock. His ragged clothing had been reduced to a fine dusting of ash, but this paled in comparison to the change in his body. It was as if he had never spent those long months chained to the wall, wasting away in the dark. His skin was not pale and jaundiced, but a deep olive. No longer was he a half-starved skeleton. Now, thick muscles knotted his compact frame. He flexed his hands, staring at the fingers. Moments ago they had been calloused stumps, covered with sores from worrying his chains, but now they were smooth and strong and whole. He looked at Melthis in amazement.

  Darien rose to his feet and slowly approached Artek. “Yes, I can see it,” he murmured in fascination. “Though I would hardly notice it if I didn’t know what to look for. You are handsome enough in a swarthy way. But the signs are there: brow ridges slightly too thick, jaw a little too protruding, shoulders a bit too heavy. And those eyes—the jet-black eyes give it away.” The nobleman’s lip curled up in disgust. “Orc blood indeed runs in your veins, doesn’t it, Ar’talen?”

  Artek glowered but said nothing. He felt suddenly naked and exposed, and not because of his lack of clothes.

  Darien opened a trunk next to the table and pulled out a bundle of dark leather. He heaved it toward Artek. “Here. Put these on. I believe black is your favorite color.”

  Artek put on the clothes: jerkin, breeches, and boots. The supple black leathers fit his body tightly but comfortably, as if made just for him.

  “T
ake this,” Melthis said, pressing the heart jewel into Artek’s hand. “It will guide you to Lord Silvertor. I have two other objects for you as well.” He handed Artek a curved saber in a leather sheath. “This sword is enchanted, and will lend you strength against any enemy you may encounter.” Finally he held out a small golden box. “And this is a transportation device. If you open it, a magical gate will appear. All you have to do is step through and you will be instantly transported out of Undermountain.”

  Artek belted the sword around his waist, then tucked the heart jewel and the golden box into his pocket. It was good to know that he had a way out of Undermountain if things looked bad.

  Darien nodded in approval. “There’s only one more thing we need to do, Ar’talen. Hold out your arm.”

  Artek eyed the noble warily, but did as he was told. Melthis rolled up the sleeve of Artek’s jerkin. Then, using a quill pen and a jar of black ink, the wizard drew an intricate tattoo on his arm: a wheel depicting a stylized sun and moon, with an arrow next to it. In the center of the wheel was a grinning skull. Artek wondered what it could possibly mean.

  Setting down the pen and ink, Melthis held his hand over the tattoo and whispered a dissonant incantation. The lines of ink glowed with scarlet light, then went dark again. Artek felt no pain, only a cool tingling against his skin.

  “What was that all about?” he asked with a frown as Melthis moved away.

  A mysterious smile played around the corners of Darien’s mouth. “Take a closer look at the tattoo, Ar’talen.”

  Feeling a sudden chill at the nobleman’s words, Artek looked. At first he noticed nothing unusual. Then he blinked in surprise. Slowly but perceptibly, the circle drawn upon his arm was moving, the sun and moon spinning around the grinning skull.

  “The tattoo is linked to the movements of the sun and moon in the sky above,” Darien explained in cool tones. “No matter how deep in the ground you go, the wheel will move as they move. As you can see, the sun is just passing the arrow, for it is sunrise outside. If the sun passes the arrow twice more—that is, in exactly two days—the tattoo will send out a small but precisely calibrated jolt of magical energy. At that moment your heart will stop beating. Forever.”

  For a moment Artek could only gape at Darien in openmouthed shock. Then rage ignited in his chest.

  Artek lunged at the nobleman. At the same time, Darien pulled his right hand from beneath his coat. Artek froze. It wasn’t a hand on the end of Darien’s arm, but some sort of metallic device. Three viciously barbed prongs sprang from the end of the metal cylinder, whirling rapidly.

  “Killing me will get you nowhere, Ar’talen.” The nobleman’s voice was not angry, merely matter-of-fact. “I will have Melthis remove the tattoo only when you return from Undermountain—with Lord Corin Silvertor. Return without Silvertor, and I will do nothing.” The whirling prongs drew closer to Artek’s face. “Now, what do you say?”

  Hatred boiled in Artek’s blood. The orc in him would not rest until he had exacted his revenge upon Lord Darien Thal. But that would have to wait; right now, there was only one thing he could do. Artek hissed the words through bared teeth.

  “Show me how I get into Undermountain.”

  Descent Into Danger

  The steep alley ended in a blank stone wall.

  “No offense, but this doesn’t exactly look like an entrance into Undermountain,” Artek noted dryly.

  He turned to watch as Lord Darien Thal and Melthis picked their way down the slimy cobblestones toward him. Dawn was breaking over the rest of Waterdeep, but in this deep alley in the Dock Ward, the shadowed gloom of night still held sway. Artek wished he could climb out of this hole and walk the city’s open avenues, to feel the light of the sun upon his face. However, it was down into the dark that he was to go.

  “That is why I am a wizard and you are a dungeon rat!” Melthis hissed acidly. He clutched his robes up around his ankles to keep them out of the foul muck of the alley. “Recall your manners, Melthis,” Darien chided as the two came to a halt. “Ar’talen is our friend in this, after all.”

  Artek shot the handsome nobleman a black look. Friend was hardly the word he would have chosen. Darien only smiled his smooth, arrogant smile.

  Melthis approached the stone wall and began to mumble under his breath. After a moment the wizard tapped the back wall of the alley with his staff. Like ripples on a pond, concentric rings of crimson magic spread outward on the wall, radiating from the point where the staff had struck. The circles flickered and vanished, but one of the stones continued to glow with dim scarlet light. Melthis pushed lightly on the stone. There was a grinding sound, followed by a hiss of fetid air. A low opening appeared in the wall. The wizard shot Artek a smug look.

  “You’ll forgive me if I hold my applause,” Artek said in annoyance.

  Darien gestured to the dark opening. “All you need do is follow the passageway beyond, Ar’talen. It leads to one place only: the upper halls of Undermountain.”

  “The transport device I gave you will return you to this place,” Melthis added. “We will be waiting for you.”

  Darien smoothed his elegant velvet coat. “Remember, Ar’talen, you have only two days to return with Lord Corin Silvertor. And if you fail to find him,” he said, green eyes flashing sharply, “don’t bother to return at all.”

  Artek tried to swallow the bitter taste of rage in his mouth. “How do I know that when I do return you’ll really have Melthis remove the tattoo?” he demanded.

  “You don’t,” Darien replied flatly. “Yet what choice do you have but to trust me?”

  Clenching his hands into fists, Artek resisted the orcish urge to tear the nobleman to shreds. He glanced down at the tattoo on his arm. Slowly, inexorably, the wheel continued to spin around the grinning skull. The sun had completely passed the arrow now. Less than two days to find the missing noble. Less than two days to live.

  “Be here,” was all he said.

  Crouching, he passed through the opening in the wall into a cramped tunnel beyond. Behind him, Melthis uttered a word of magic. The secret doorway shut with a foreboding boom, sealing Artek in tomblike blackness.

  For a long moment he stared into the thick darkness. Gradually his eyes began to adjust. Rough walls, loose stones, and scurrying insects appeared before him in subtle shades of red. He sighed in the dank air. During those long months locked in his cell, he had thought his ability to see in the dark lost forever, for his eyes had glimpsed nothing but impenetrable blackness. Now he knew that this had indeed been due to some enchantment bound in the stones of that cell. Like his thieving skills, his darkvision was a gift from his half-orc father. And one for which he was now grateful.

  In a hunched position, he began moving down the low tunnel. Countless times it bent and twisted, until he lost almost all sense of direction. Yet some deep instinct told him that he was steadily heading westward—in the direction of Mount Waterdeep. At several points he was forced to crawl on his belly over heaps of rubble where the tunnel had caved in. The foul air was oppressive, and he breathed it in shallow gasps through his open mouth.

  Abruptly he came to a halt. The passageway, which had been level up to this point, suddenly plunged down before him at a steep angle. He eyed the slope critically. It would require some caution, but he could do it. Keeping his center of balance low to the floor, he inched his way over the edge of the incline.

  His boot skidded on a layer of slime.

  Artek’s hands shot out, but it was no use. The walls and floor of the tunnel were both dripping with slick slime. The ichor was the same temperature as the cool stones, and so his heat-sensitive eyes had failed to detect it. His boots and fingers scrabbled furiously against the slimy surface. He nearly made it back up to the edge of the incline, but then he lost his grip and careened headlong down the steep slope.

  His curses rang off the walls of the tunnel as he slid rapidly downward. In vain he fought to slow his descent, wondering if at any moment he would s
trike a blank wall or some other obstacle with bone-crushing force. Out of control, he slid faster and faster.

  As suddenly as it had begun, the slope ended, leveling into a flat passageway once more. With a surge of dread, he saw that his fear of a trap was all too prophetic. Just ahead, the tunnel dead-ended in a wall bristling with pointed iron spikes. Despite the level floor, he was so covered with slime that he continued to skid, hurtling with fatal speed face first toward the spikes.

  With a yell, he reached back and fumbled for the saber belted at his hip. At the last moment he drew the blade and thrust his arms out before him, clenching his eyes against the coming impact. There was a deafening clang of metal on metal, accompanied by a spray of hot sparks. A brutal shock raced up his arms, jarring his shoulders painfully, as he came to a sudden halt. After a moment he opened his eyes. He looked up to see the tip of a spike a hairsbreadth from his hands. The sword was longer than the spikes, its tip striking the wall just before he struck the points.

  Pulling his aching arms back, he slowly sat up and slipped the saber back into its scabbard.

  “I guess that was the quick way down,” he said weakly. He let out a nervous laugh of relief. Stiffly, he started to climb to his feet.

  That was when the floor dropped out from beneath him.

  Artek swore as he plunged downward. He had become stupid as well as rusty during his long imprisonment. Of course the spikes hadn’t been the real trap. They were far too obvious. Their only purpose had been to distract him from the true trick—a weight-sensitive trapdoor. And it had worked perfectly. He flailed as he plummeted through cold air, wondering how many heartbeats he had until he struck bottom.

  Out of the corner of his eye, a large shape loomed beneath him. Instinct took command. Like a cat in midfall, he snapped his body around and reached out. His fingers brushed across hard stone, slipped—then caught in a sharp crevice. His descent abruptly halted. Once again pain flared in his shoulders, but somehow he managed to keep his grip on the crack. Searching blindly with his boots, he found a toehold and took the pressure off his throbbing arms. He leaned his cheek against the cool stone, breathing hard. That had been close. Too close.